


RPM

by TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Drama, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love Confessions, M/M, Motorcycles, Politics, Science Fiction, Street Racing, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 03:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21190538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard/pseuds/TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard
Summary: Slow love in the fast lane.





	RPM

The Northern Lights is a squat and wide machine. Quad tires. Gorgeous suspension coils. Reinforced bumpers designed to take a few hits. Engine boxed in with pipes full of specialty cooling foam so that shit won’t immediately _ catch fire _ if there’s ever a bad enough crash. She’s made of gleaming white and burgundy metal and, as banged up as she is, she still shines. Fucking _ glistens _. She’s huge but still sits lower than a lot of other bikes on the track but the wide stance means she’s harder to flip.

Lucas considers himself a skilled mechanic. He graduated top (fifty) of his class, can name every tool in his workshop from memory and can be blindfolded and still know exactly what bike part’s been shoved into his hands. Plus, he’s been specially picked to look after the Northern Lights by his country. That’s gotta count for something. Lucas can go on and on about the Northern Lights’s weaponry. How all of her gear is powered by a plasma battery separate from her engine. He can list the exact grade of nitro fuel she eats up, down to the last decimal like he’s reciting pi. He can describe, at length, how the bike’s thick armor and chunky off-road wheels make her slow to get started but impossible to stop when she gets moving, but no one except other mechanics and the odd enthusiastic journalist want to hear such ramblings. 

And even then, Jungwoo, his closest mechanic buddy, has his own combat bike he’s in charge of keeping repaired and, to be so dainty-looking, he has quite the temper on him when Lucas gets to bragging about the Northern Lights.

“It’s not like you built her,” Jungwoo snaps, his pretty face streaked with oil stains, his long black hair tied out of his face with a stray bit of rope.

Lucas scoffs. “Yeah, but Mark’s a reckless enough driver that I’ve _ rebuilt _ her over the years.”

Jungwoo exhales through his mouth. It is cold enough outside for his breath to turn to clouds. “Stop bragging or it’ll come back to bite you in the ass.” The man spits into the dirt and wipes his grimy hands on the towel draped over his shoulder, taking a long time to extend his middle finger and clean the dirt from beneath the nail. 

Lucas sees the insult. “Maybe if we still weren’t _ undefeated _.” He puffs out his chest. 

“You’re undefeated in _ one _ division.” Jungwoo rolls his eyes before turning around. “Team Australia are the global champs.” He walks towards his designated hangar, not looking back once. His coveralls are just as grease-covered as the rest of him, but the South Korean flag emblazoned on the back of it is still easily recognizable. It almost seems to glow through the muck. Over his shoulder, he shouts, “The Americas ain’t shit. All of you.”

“You wanna come back here and say that to my face?” Almost subconsciously, Lucas lowers his hand to his thigh where a Canadian flag is stitched into the white material. “Yeah, that’s what the fuck I thought,” Lucas shouts at Jungwoo’s retreating back, only somewhat jokingly. He teases Jungwoo often and he can only hope the older man hears his friendly rival bullshiting as the jokes that they are. Over the past several years of representing Team Canada in the combat races, Lucas can admit that Team South Korea is one of the few Teams who give them a run for their money in the exhibition matches. Still, it’s hard _ not _ to brag when he works for a driver like Mark fucking Lee. With slick black hair, a square jaw and the roundest ass Lucas has ever seen on a man, Mark is every bit as magnificent as the combat bike that he pilots. And every time The Northern Lights launches off the starting line onto some crazy, trap-filled race track, Lucas’s heart lurches in his chest a little bit like one of those old tales about wives who’d sit on beach cliffs for weeks, waiting for their navy husbands to return from war.

But now there is no war. Only racing. Either to the finish line or to the death.

Just by the nature of the work, a driver and mechanic have to trust each other completely. The driver relies on the mechanic to keep their bike’s many moving parts running smoothly so they can do what they are paid for and _ race _. The mechanic has to hope and pray the driver gets in a few licks to make it good for the TV ratings but not get banged up too bad or, worse, completely wreck the bike or, even more likely, get blown to bits themselves.

Lucas remembers one of the conversations he had with Jungwoo a few weeks back at a different match. The stadium was somewhere cold. Colder. Probably Russia. Mark Lee had made headlines immediately after the race by managing to _ drive away _ from a four bike pile-up on the last lap. He’d come in 6th, which wasn’t quite for respecting, but he’d gotten out of yet another accident with the bare minimum of scratches and only a couple thousand CAD worth of engine repairs. 

“I don’t care about the wild and crazy shit Mark does,” Jungwoo had screamed in Lucas’s face back then. “I just care that he keeps _ wrecking my bikes _!”

“But you have to admit that he pulls off some amazing stunts,” Lucas defended him.

“He’s going to die one day. Get fucking incinerated by somebody’s fucking plasma cannon.”

And Lucas had gotten mad then. Vehement. Violent. He’d grabbed his biggest wrench and stomped across the icy pavement of the pit stops in Jungwoo’s direction. But right when he was within swinging range, wrench hefted in his hand, red in the face with a scream at the tip of his tongue, Jungwoo had simply said, “You’ve had Mark for four or five years. I’ve been through three drivers in the past eight months.”

Well… Let’s just say Lucas goes out of his way to never mention Mark’s near-misses after that. 

🏍 

Thursday. April. 1100 hours. They are somewhere in the mountainous and idyllic countryside of northern Japan, booked for the week in a traditional inn with genuine hot springs out back and an actual shrine up the road. The weather is comfortably cool, though the temperatures are still a little wintry for this time of year. The sliding doors are pushed completely open and early morning sunlight and a slightly chilly breeze spill into the room. Outside, it’s still not quite late enough for cherry blossoms but the cheerful song of birds is incessant enough to nearly drown out the noise of the race recap playing on the TV. 

Lucas listens in on the commentators. How they excitedly chat about how the sticky foam cannon fired backwards from Team India hit not one but _ two _ targets, gumming up their tires and cinching India’s third place spot on the podium. The commentators gossip about how Team Hong Kong’s driver threw quite the party at the start of the week and someone in attendance wound up in jail. They refused to drop a name but strongly hinted at it being Team USA’s driver. But, near the end of the broadcast, one of the commentators brought up Team Canada and how Mark Lee’s old-school driving techniques and reliance on last-gen weaponry and parts may hold him back. Another commentator smugly states, “I don’t think coming in first means being held back.” The rest of the panel chuckles and then, just like that, they’re talking about Team Poland. 

Lucas admires himself in a floor length mirror. He’s still got a tan from their tour stop in South Africa and the warm glow of his skin matches the dyed honey brown of his hair in a sweet way. He turns this way and that to look at his reflection, loving the way his sculpted body looks beneath the soft, sky blue silk of his traditional yukata with gold dragons embroidered across the collars and sleeves. It looks and feels expensive against his coarse skin and he’s surprised it fits him so well when it is supposed to be a sponsorship gift for the considerably smaller Mark.

As if sensing he’s been thought about, Mark walks into their shared room from the bathroom humming a cheerful tune. Standing barefoot on the tatami mat floors, surrounded by traditional rice paper paintings and the decorative Buddha statues that line the room, Mark looks ridiculously out of place in all of his modern racing gear. The last leg of the race is scheduled for that afternoon. It’s early but they still have to catch the designated cable car down the mountain to the race track and it’s a long, slow ride. Mark stands next to Lucas. He barely comes up to the man’s shoulder in terms of height. He rummages in his pocket for something and then leans toward the mirror to take a pair of tweezers to the hair on his chin.

“I see you accepted that deal with the new sponsor,” Lucas points out. “They’ve been trying to get you to sign for ages.” The wind blows through the open doors and the cold of it reminds Lucas of how much of his frame the yukata exposes. He’s suddenly self-conscious and pulls the front of the garment closed so that it covers his bare chest. 

Mark doesn’t notice the mechanic’s shyness. He barely meets Lucas’s eyes in the glass before going, “Huh?”

Lucas wonders if his English has deteriorated that much over the course of the tour. “That one is new.” He points to Mark’s racing uniform. On the left side of Mark’s torso, from his armpit to his hip bone, is a neon pink logo. A fashion brand.

Mark follows Lucas’s extended finger and stares at the logo as if it is his first time seeing it. “Oh. I suppose it is,” he admits. “Really, I don’t pay attention anymore. I just put the thing on and race.” Already, his attention is back on his reflection, plucking hairs from his jaw. 

Every two weeks, Mark gets a new uniform. Sponsorships change even more often than that, so logos always need to be added or rearranged or removed or enlarged depending on how much money Team Canada are getting from which company each race. At the start of his career, Mark had been picky about sponsorships. He chose companies not based on their public standings or stock market value or the amount of their donation but based on the design and color schemes of their logos, going all orange one month or mixing it up with blue and green logos the next. He deliberately picked what ‘looked cool.’ These days, though, Mark says yes to anything and everything and, when he puts on his uniform before an interview or a race, he becomes a cluttered, multicolored billboard. “Help me with this zipper, yeah?” Mark spins around a bit, presenting Lucas with his back. 

The uniform design itself changes far less often than the logos and brand names that need to be patched onto it, but Lucas remembers the early years when the outfits didn’t… _ cling _. He knows it’s because of all of the innovations in padding and the militarized impact-absorbing fabric the uniforms are made of now and how everything has to be close to the skin to actually be effective, but it’s not until quiet moments like these that Lucas remembers how great of a shape the uniform has to cling to. Mark looks... good. Delicious. Even with the dizzying clash of colors and logos across his body. 

Perhaps it’s because Mark has to sit to race a bike and companies won’t pay for space that won’t get caught on camera, but the polyester is bare and white across Mark’s ass which is a shame because it’s _ prime real estate _ . Lucas doesn’t know what comes over him. He stretches out his big, calloused palm and swings at Mark’s right ass cheek like he wants to knock it off Mark’s hip. The _ thwack _ of the strike is like a thunderclap in the quiet. Lucas can feel the impact-absorbing technology do its job. His hand stings from where the material has slapped him right back as the fibers of the uniform spread the force of the strike up Mark’s torso and down his legs. 

His splendid ass doesn’t even jiggle and that’s the worst crime.

“The zipper,” Mark deadpans, hooking a thumb towards his back. He must not have even _ felt _ the hit based on his expression.

Only then does it really click in Lucas’s head what he’s just done, that he’s just _ spanked _ the man. “Right,” he says quickly and busies himself pinching the tiny zipper at the base of Mark’s spine and hoisting it up to the middle of his neck. Along the way, though, Lucas takes in the slightly gruesome sight of the cuts and scars and burn marks and discoloration that permanently mar Mark’s skin after years on the track. Lucas snaps out of it. “You know you have to wear your wrist guard on your left. Logo pointing outwards.” He steps around Mark and makes the appropriate adjustments to his equipment. “And you can’t fold the collar down when advertisers have paid for that space.” Lucas looks Mark over with more purpose now. There’s the logo for a brand of motor oil on Mark’s chest, the logo for a chocolate candy brand on his shoulder, a beer brand down his bicep. There’s one for an auto parts store across his shoulder blades, a toy company’s logo wraps around his waist, a soda brand’s logo takes up room on one thigh and a car manufacturer is on the other. Even with the necessary padding and protection strapped to Mark’s knees, elbows and hips, not too much else is obstructed. Lucas nags, “And you _ can’t _ wear your hat backwards. The logo, Mark. Think of the logo.” He tugs Mark’s cap off, turns it and correctly places it back over Mark’s dark hair.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been interviewed, you know,” Mark grunts. He finishes his grooming and swipes a thumb beneath his smooth chin. Satisfied, he smiles at his reflection and leans away from the glass. “And, yes, when I’m on camera, I know the exact angle to stand at and the exact place to hold the water bottle when I take a sip so that the water company won’t dock my pay.” 

He is joking. Somewhat. But even Lucas can tell that, even after all of these years, Mark still gets a little nervous before a race. “Just do what you always do. You’ll be fine out there, Mark.” 

The driver hands Lucas his tweezers. The smile that crosses his face widens as he backs away. “You know,” he says, “if you’re squeezing it instead of hitting it, I can feel it then.” 

Lucas stands there confused for several seconds. What Mark said made little sense at all. 

It’s not until Mark has left the room for his interview and Lucas is packing up their things for their evening flight that he _ understands _. And blushes.

🏍 

Kim Jungwoo is responsible for repairs and general upkeep of South Korea’s new Hallasan. She’s a beaut. As emerald green as the grass that grows on the volcano of her namesake. She’s sleek and narrow and built for speed, not power. She sits on two skinny tires and there’s a wide stabilizer off the back to keep her planted on the ground at high speed. She’s top of the line, as most things from her home country are. Newest of the new. Most advanced of the advanced. She has the first gyrosphere cockpit of its kind, one that reacts to every minor shift in gravity using magnetism instead of pressurized air. 

In other words, no matter how hard she banks on ramps or how sharply she drifts through turns or how bad of a tumble she takes after getting sideswiped, the cockpit rotates to keep her driver upright. With speed like that, such precautions are _ necessary _.

The Hallasan is South Korea’s latest project. The war machine was completed by expedited order a mere month ago after a bad crash had smashed the country’s previous representative combat bike into 84 separate pieces, about nine of them being her driver.

Lucas has to admit that he’s pretty lucky. As long as he’s been a certified mechanic and he’s never had to mourn the death of his own driver. Sure, he had taken it extremely poorly when Johnny Suh broke his contract and battled it out in court for seven months so he could return to racing for Team USA but at least the man wasn’t _ dead _. 

Jungwoo, on the other hand, still mourns for the drivers he’s lost. During exhibitions like this one, when the mechanics and drivers hunker down in five-star hotels paid for by their governments, Lucas can rest easy on his plush bed knowing he can wake up with Mark across the room. He can rest easy even though he knows sensitive Jungwoo bawls his eyes out late at night. Just that morning, Jungwoo had stumbled into the inn’s central building for breakfast, yukata tear-stained and askew, his eyes red-rimmed and his throat hoarse, reeking of _ sake _ . Lucas had been the only other mechanic up that early and, in a rare moment of vulnerability, Jungwoo had opened up to him. The tough guy front he’d put up, attempting to convince everyone he was mourning the lost bike not the lost driver… It made him feel guilty. Not because Jungwoo felt personally responsible for mourning the man, but because the South Korean military didn’t give him time _ to _ mourn and had assigned him the spitfire upstart Lee Donghyuck a mere _ day _ after Kim Doyoung’s memorial service. 

Donghyuck had been handed the mighty task of representing his country in all global affairs not out of any merit or test score but because the South Korean president had picked his name at random off of a list as soon as she’d heard about Doyoung’s passing. Lucas had read the news stories all the way back in Canada. Allegedly, Donghyuck had been handed the keys to The Hallasan not even ten seconds after completing the physical exam that marked the end of his basic training. Lucas had been doing this for way longer so the passing of time had nearly made him forget, but it wasn’t until Lucas had gotten a good look at Donghyuck during the boy’s first race the other week that Lucas was reminded of the fact that the world’s governments were totally okay with making youngsters on weaponized motorbikes blow each other up as global entertainment. But anything, he reasoned, _ anything _ is better than world war. 

🏍 

Wednesday. June. 0600 hours. 

Lucas is already awake, showered and dressed. This weekend, the exhibition match is in Lisbon. The stadium’s been partially built out over the water, well within view of the sunken Tower of Saint Vincent. Lucas loves that his job - no, his duty to his country - lets him fly around the globe all expenses paid but he hates that whether he’s in New Zealand, Brazil or the U.A.E, the main thing he gets to see in such beautiful countries are the pit stops at the combat racing stadiums. And they all look the same.

Lucas walks down narrow Portugeuse street after narrow Portugeuse street. It is too early for the birds to start chirping. Too early even for the faintest light of dawn.

Lucas doesn’t consider himself much of a fashionista so he walks around in what he feels most comfortable in: his white mechanic coveralls. Since he doesn’t get much or any screen time, he is not contractually obligated to be covered in company logos but, to make up for it, the Canadian flag is slapped on both his thighs like badges of honor. His coveralls are unzipped in the front from his throat to his hips, the long sleeves tied around his wide waist. A black tank top, decent boots and heavy work gloves cover the rest of him.

“Come on, Jungwoo. You know you want to race me through diagnostic checks.” Lucas knocks on the wooden door of the tiny ocean blue house where the South Korean government has put him up for the week. It’s early. Plus there’s jet lag. Lucas does not expect an immediate answer but before he can knock again, the door swings open. Jungwoo stands there looking rumpled. Unshaven. Messy. But not from a night of crying. Jungwoo is out of breath and sweaty. He wears nothing but underwear that is clearly on him backwards.

“Well then,” Lucas exclaims, looking Jungwoo up and down. He gets the feeling he’s just interrupted something. “If you’re busy, I’ll-”

A sound comes from farther inside the room. Lucas lets his curiosity get to him despite his caution. He stands on his tip toes and peers over Jungwoo’s pale, wiry-muscled shoulder. A shorter man walks up behind Jungwoo, looking ethereal in the slashes of warm street light that reach him. His hair sits on top of his head in bleached blonde tangles. One of Jungwoo’s casual shirts is big enough on the man to hang off his shoulders and drape halfway down his bare, hairless thighs. “Morning, Lucas,” he says without an ounce of shame, dipping beneath Jungwoo’s arm to step barefoot onto the cobblestone street, arms piled high with dirty clothes.

Lucas turns back to Jungwoo, eyes wide. “You fucked Ten? From Team Thailand?” 

“I fucked him,” Ten corrects, still within earshot. 

Lucas sputters, slightly embarrassed. He turns to Jungwoo. “You aren’t even loyal to your own country?”

“Do you think I’m going to get my back blown out by the _ new kid _?” Jungwoo is already stepping back as if to shut the door and escape the conversation but Lucas holds up a hand to keep from being literally shut out. 

He asks, “Aren’t Thailand and South Korea on bad terms?” 

“Bad terms. Good terms.” Jungwoo tries to shut the door closed again but Lucas is beefy. Sturdy. The door won’t budge. Jungwoo gives up and swings the door open wider. “Does shit like that even matter when it can all change based on who comes in what place in the next race?” 

True. Lucas has been doing this long enough to know that the same men he’s encouraged to go drinking with one week can be the same men he’s ordered by his country to avoid fraternizing with the next week. He’s made friends. Lost them. Made them again. Lost them again. Everything depends on which country is racking up the most tour points as everyone flies from race track to race track, stadium to stadium, country to country. “Okay then. How long has that been going on?” Lucas waves a hand down the street in the general direction of Ten just before the man turns the corner and disappears from sight.

Jungwoo hesitates for a moment before motioning for Lucas to enter the tiny house. The door shuts behind them and Jungwoo turns on another lamp. The room is an absolute mess and still stinks of strong alcohol, exertion and sex. “It hasn’t even been a month,” Jungwoo answers the question. “It started right after the... accident.” Right after Doyoung’s crash. “Oddly enough, we met at the memorial service and we bonded because we both knew Doyoung and had apparently both slept with him. I told myself that we only fucked that night out of grief, stress, out of... _ something _. But a month has gone by and I think we fuck out of something different now.” Jungwoo belatedly realizes his underwear is on backwards and he shamelessly pulls off the violet, silky material.

Lucas doesn’t bat an eyelash. Doesn’t blush. He’s known Jungwoo for too long. “Doyoung was a good driver.”

Jungwoo looks up and forces a smile. “Not good enough, eh?” He pulls his underwear on correctly and then rummages through the pile of discarded clothes on the floor until he finds his own pair of flag-emblazoned coveralls. He shoves one leg in and then the other and jumps around a bit to wriggle the skin-tight material up his narrow legs and torso. “Donghyuck’s okay behind the handlebars, I suppose.”

“You gonna sleep with him, too?”

At this, Jungwoo scowls. “I’d rather fuck Sicheng from Team China.”

Lucas nods appreciatively. If there is a celebrity driver among celebrity drivers, it’s Sicheng. He spends about as much time acting in soap operas and modeling for luxury clothing brands as he does piloting a war machine. With his spectacular shoulder-to-waist ratio, he can pull off any kind of style and fashion houses foam at the mouth for the chance to have him walk their shows. Sicheng’s quite a looker, even with - or perhaps _ because _ of - all of the facial scars, but Lucas has also heard horror stories about the driver’s prickliness. Sicheng has a thing about being touched, apparently, and freaks out even if his own manager accidentally jostles against him in an elevator or something. “Good luck with that,” Lucas tells Jungwoo. “You’ll need it for such a conquest.” 

“You slept with Mark yet?” Jungwoo asks casually.

“Pssh, of course not,” Lucas chokes, losing his composure. Suddenly, the ceiling becomes more interesting to stare at.

“But you want to fuck him, don’t you?” Jungwoo sits down on the closest chair and watches Lucas expectantly. Knowingly.

“Just because you sleep with your drivers doesn’t mean I want to sleep with mine.” But he does want to. For some strange reason.

Jungwoo shrugs. “Drivers and mechanics… We already spend so much goddamn time with each other, we’re practically married. May as well consummate it.”

“Wouldn’t it be weird?” Lucas leans up against the wall beside the door. He doesn’t trust sitting on any of the horizontal surfaces in Jungwoo’s messy room. “Four years is a lot of time to spend next to someone but I can’t shake the feeling Mark still sees me as nothing but a roommate.”

“You’re projecting.” 

“I don’t even know what that means.” 

“You’re just upset you can’t get in his pants.” 

“I don’t want to. I really don’t.” 

“They are all racing for their lives out there.” Jungwoo bends down, grabs something off the floor, slips on a thin, holey t-shirt before he zips his coveralls up to his neck, covering the marks Ten bit into his skin. “Fuck patriotism. Drivers get nothing out of fighting for their country except a skimpy paycheck. Sometimes fighting for the sake of some dick is a better motivator.” 

“I… doubt that.” Lucas takes his eyes off of the ceiling. Now he understands the importance of uniforms. Jungwoo looks less timid - less gangly and awkward - when he is in his. “Aren’t we supposed to be professionals? Plus I’m… straight.” 

“Dude. We’re in the military. We’ve been on tour since April and don’t have the free time to jerk off, let alone meet women. Nobody gives a shit. We legit only have each other.” 

It’s a little true. Between the eleven hour plane rides, the numerous sponsor meetings and magazine interviews, all of the bike maintenance, the practice runs and the lengthy races… Free time is one thing they do not have a lot of and, really, Lucas can’t remember when he was last able to hook up with someone. Hook up with _ anyone _. Still… It’s odd for Lucas to imagine that he can just stroll to another country’s bike hangar an hour before a race with a sexual proposition and not get a confused eyebrow raise in response. 

Fortunately, Jungwoo switches topics. “So what Teams do you think we should be on the lookout for today?” He finds a brush on the floor, sniffs it, runs it through his messy hair.

“I personally think we should both keep an eye on Team Germany. That Yangyang kid they’ve got behind the handlebars has been rising through the rankings the past few months. He’s accrued enough points to outrank Egypt. England! He’s even smoked Argentina and Italy. He’ll surely be gunning for Hong Kong next.”

“Ehh, that won’t be hard for him. Hong Kong’s lost too many good drivers. They just put anybody on the handlebars these days.” Jungwoo stands up, looks himself over in the mirror on the wall before deciding that he looks put-together enough to not look like he hasn’t showered. “You ready to go?”

They leave the house. Jungwoo locks up behind them. Shoulder to shoulder, they walk down the narrow, hilly streets of the European city. It takes them a few blocks to get out of the shadows of the buildings but the walk is worth it when they turn a corner and catch a glimpse of the ocean stretching infinitely in front of them over the roofs of the houses below them. Dawn colors the sky rose gold. Lucas sucks in a lungful of warm, salty air but the joy is brief. He will spend the remainder of his day down at the stadium, surrounded by the grime and gunpowder smells of the war machines, covered in oil and sweating away the hours replacing worn parts or tires and watching the monitor like a nervous wreck as at least thirty one-ton bikes race for 1st place while setting each on fire in the process. 

Lucas probably won’t even remember the name of the country he’s in by sundown. That’s how torn up his nerves will be.

The two mechanics find the service entrance to the Portugal Stadium, wave their ID badges and have their retinas scanned to get through three layers of security and then hoof it down a few flights of stairs and across a long, muddy stretch of track to get to the pit stops that sit just off the starting line. The race doesn’t start for hours but it is already crowded as other pit crew teams wheel in supplies and fine-tune their war machines. Each hangar is designated by their country’s flag flapping in the sea breeze above their massive, open doors. Team Germany. Team Macau. Team USA. Team Thailand. Team Japan. Team China. Team South Korea. Team Canada. The flags create a swath of festival colors from one end of the pit to the other. With all of the team members in their multicolored coveralls, with all of the high energy and shouting and bass-boosted music, it’s easy to forget that all of these countries aren’t gathered here for fun and games. They gather here to assert dominance, forge alliances, sway public opinion, direct the global economy, earn investments and make foreign trade deals. 

They come here to wage war. They come here to _ conquer _. 

As Jungwoo and Lucas walk past the other Team’s hangars, Lucas peers at the war machines inside. He’s seen most of them before - he knows Mark has raced against them before - but it’s always a good idea to scope the competition and keep an eye out for any… upgrades. Like this one. 

A brand new bike sits in Team Japan’s hangar which is a surprise because it’s not like the last one got totalled. She’s blacker-than-black and crimson red like something out of a nightmare. A narrow wheel in front, two massive wheels in the rear. Eight metal spikes hook like claws over her back bumper. Orochi, the nameplate outside the hangar names her, after one of the Japanese monsters of myth. Lucas looks over at Jungwoo at the exact same moment Jungwoo looks up at him. They both clearly think the same thing: 

_ That might be a problem. _

“A little later than usual, boys.” The voice belongs to Qian Kun, Team China’s infamously skilled mechanic. He sits astride The Qilin like he is her driver as opposed to Sicheng. His custom-made work gloves grip the handlebars and his knee-high designer boots bounce idly against the thick kickstand. Kun is already small but he looks even more diminutive when next to the bulky, silvery-pink war machine. He jokes, “I’m afraid you missed all of the cold, dry food the Chamber of Commerce were handing out for ‘breakfast’ earlier.” His fingers curl in the air to make the quotes.

“Don’t mind us. We got a little sidetracked,” Jungwoo shouts over the rumbling noise of The Qilin’s engine. “Plus, I already ate. Twice, in fact.” He waggles his eyebrows in Lucas’s direction, clearly talking about Ten as opposed to actual sustenance.

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Anyways, is everything going good over here, Kun?”

Kun cuts the Qilin’s engine. Swings his leg over her, makes the drop down to the ground and walks towards them. “She passed all of her startup tests and has a fresh can of oil in her.” Suspicion hits him and he furrows his eyebrows. “Why do you ask?”

“I mean, is everything-” Lucas jerks his head towards Team Japan’s hangar across the way, “-_ good _?”

Kun visibly relaxes. “I don’t think she’s half as frightening as she looks.”

Jungwoo sucks on the back of his teeth. “Doesn’t Yuta drive her, though?”

Kun repeats, “I don’t think he’s half as frightening as he looks. He even dyed his hair red to match her paint job like some lunatic.”

It’s not the most reassuring of sentiments but it’s all the comfort they are going to get until the race starts and they see the Orochi in action. 

Lucas doesn’t know of a smoother way to approach the topic so he just goes for it. “Have you ever slept with Sicheng?” 

Kun doesn’t look a smidge surprised by the topic. “Nope. Dude won’t let me touch him. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even touch himself.” Kun shrugs like it’s no big loss. “I’ve fucked the guys of Team Hong Kong before. At the same time, if I can boast.” 

This shocks Lucas. His eyes go wide. “Wait… so is shit like that really so common?” He looks at Jungwoo and then back at Kun. “You guys just…” The rest of the pit crew in the hangar aren’t paying them any attention but Lucas can’t feel better until he steps forward and half-whispers into Kun’s ear, “Is it really alright to just fuck across country borders like that?” 

Kun laughs. “There’s no law against it. Hell, it would be a lot more fun if there _ was _. Why?” He looks Lucas up and down. “Are you offering?” He laughs when Lucas stiffens and backs away. “You don’t look like you’re into what I’m into anyway.” 

Lucas can’t help his curiosity. “What are you into?” 

Before Kun can traumatize them, Jungwoo speaks up. “Well, see you, dude. Maybe we can go for drinks later?”

Kun gives them a half-assed, unnecessary salute. “We’ll send you a postcard from the finish line.” Just like that, he turns around and starts barking orders at his pit crew members (“Properly stack up those tires!” “Test the brakes one more time.” “Who has the weather report?”) 

Jungwoo and Lucas resume walking.

There’s a giant obelisk at the center of the pit: a memorial. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of small, blue, slightly blurry hologram images stare blankly down at anyone who passes. They are the faces of the drivers who have lost their lives in the combat races. There are far more than Lucas can fathom. On the top row, from back when the first Stadium was christened in Los Angeles, to the bottom row, where Doyoung stares glumly out at nothing, dead for just over a month. Everyone on that wall has a story and Lucas isn’t sure he wants to count how many of those drivers Jungwoo has lost. It isn’t that the guy is a bad mechanic. It isn’t that his bikes have ever _ failed _. Crashes are just a part of racing. And so are oil slicks, caltrops, spiked bumpers, laser guns and sticky bombs. It is all part of the show. Hell, maybe the crashes and deaths are all part of the show, too.

“You get used to it,” Jungwoo states unprompted. “The loss, I mean.” He must notice how Lucas stares at the memorial. “You learn to clamp it down in your heart somewhere. You learn to eat it away. Drink it away. Gamble it away. Cry it away. Fuck it away. The pain doesn’t stop but it becomes manageable once you find something to ease the pain.”

The cold, unemotional words don’t match the man who had been bawling his eyes out back in Hokkaido. Lucas confronts him, “Are _ you _ managing?” 

Jungwoo has no answer for him so they fall into silence as the two of them reach the last few hangars in the pit. “I remember when I first became a private,” Jungwoo muses, “and they gave me my first tool kit and told me to change the oil in the transport trucks. I saw a combat bike with my own eyes then. It was Team France’s Marie Antoinette.” The two of them reach Team South Korea’s hangar and Jungwoo comes to a stop outside its open doors. The pit crew inside stop what they are doing to stand at attention, salute and shout a greeting at their captain. Jungwoo doesn’t acknowledge them. “Never would I have imagined that I would get promoted with honors and be given responsibility for the upkeep of South Korea’s war bikes. I’ve seen so many battles… been through so many drivers...”

“It’s not your fault,” Lucas has to raise his voice to be heard over the synchronized stomping of the pit crew as they scatter back to their posts. Lucas says, “It’s war. People die.”

“But not your Mark Lee,” Jungwoo says with such a weariness in his voice that Lucas can’t even respond. 

🏍

Lucas is proud of the Northern Lights. She looks old in the big and long-lasting and _ heavy _ way that countries used to make war machines before it all became about round curves and slim silhouettes and flashy, metallic paint jobs. Johnny had been a careful driver, all things considered. When he drove for Team Canada back in the day, Johnny could coax out some surprising acceleration times considering the Northern Lights’s weight and he would risk his pole position or precious seconds on his lap time if it meant avoiding traps. The scene has changed, though, and the more explosions there are, the higher the TV ratings. The bigger the audience, the bigger the sponsor donations. Clean racing isn’t really _ expected _ anymore. The public almost demands brutal crashes and fires.

Lucas has done what he can to prepare the Northern Lights for the changing times over the years. He’s thickened the armor plating on the Northern Lights’s vulnerable backside, given her a larger shield battery to last through longer assaults, fitted her with compatible long-range weaponry and even a grappling hook that can grab terrain for risky turns or shortcuts. But even with his inventions and testing and tuning, the Northern Lights is still best suited for taking hits, not dishing them. If Mark can get in front of the pack early, he’s good to go because the Northern Lights stays where you put her, but Mark is always at a disadvantage if he has to speed and blast his way to 1st.

In Team Canada’s hangar, Lucas spends the hours before the race running through the bike’s calibrations. Her ignition hasn’t even been turned on since they were in Australia so he takes his time checking and double-checking gauges. He runs every diagnostics test twice and gets the pressure in the tires to the exact recommended decimal place. Everything is good. He takes good care of the Northern Lights. She is sturdy and has lasted this long for good reason. Team Canada doesn’t even have another war machine in development even though the Northern Lights is years old, that’s how sure the country is of her. That’s how sure the country is of Mark Fucking Lee.

Other mechanics haven’t been so lucky. Some bikes get so damaged in a race that the only option is to scrap them for parts and start fresh from a new chassis. The country’s respective government will usually shell out the cash with no issue. They’ll go into debt to rush something down the pipeline. They have to. If they don’t have a bike in a race, they effectively have no hand in global politics or economics or trade or diplomacy. If they don’t have a bike, they don’t have a country. But a new bike is a nightmare for the mechanics and pit crew that maintain her. A new bike means new corners and angles and parts and different math, which can add long hours of labor to even a routine diagnostic check. Johnny’s Team USA mechanic had to take online training school classes between tour stops to learn the ins and outs of the new generation of electromagnetic engines and Jungwoo, as quick-witted as he is, still hasn’t learned his way around the Hallasan and always has to consult her blueprints.

Lucas is on the underside of the Northern Lights, examining her front axle, when the radio strapped across his chest crackles to life and it is officially announced that the race is about to start.

The day has slipped past him without him noticing.

Ten minutes isn’t much time to work with but he’s gotten the Northern Lights prepared in less than that.

He finishes his work on the axle and then runs an engine test. The computer shows him check mark after check mark. All clear.

Two minutes later, a familiar silhouette stands in front of the hangar’s open doors.

“Hey, Lucas,” Mark greets him almost excitedly.

Lucas tells him, “You’re pretty chipper.”

“Want me to start panicking?”

That gets a laugh out of Lucas. He reaches out a gloved hand and waits patiently as Mark crosses the cement floor. Mark approaches him, grabs Lucas’s gloved hand with his own, steadies himself as he raises a booted foot and places it on Lucas’s thigh just above his knee. With the added boost in height, Mark half-jumps and gets enough altitude to get his leg astride the Northern Lights. He settles into the bucket seat and straps himself in. Or tries to. He pauses when he realizes he’s still holding on to Lucas’s hand. “How much time do we have,” he asks, letting go.

Lucas has been counting the minutes in his head. “Plenty.”

_ You slept with Mark yet? But you want to fuck him, don’t you? _Jungwoo’s voice is in Lucas’s brain and it gets louder and louder the longer Lucas watches Mark strap himself to the bike and adjust his seat and mirrors. 

Mark doesn’t notice his ogling. “Northern Lights, powering on,” the driver announces. He pushes in the long, tube-like ignition button. The bikes starts up with a loud, whirring howl. The entire thing rumbles and shakes confidently. One by one, the lights on the dashboard come to life in brilliant greens. “All clear,” Mark says. He looks down at Lucas, who is on his tiptoes comparing the numbers on the Northern Lights’s gauges to the graphs on his handheld computer screen. “We’re good to go.”

“We haven’t raced in this particular Stadium before,” Lucas warns him, keeping his eyes on the numbers on his screen so he doesn’t have to look up into Mark’s smiling face. “You’ve been studying the track, right? _ Please _ tell me you’ve been doing the VR run-throughs.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “It’s scheduled to start raining any minute now so stop here with us to switch out any worn out tires before you wind up spinning through a guardrail.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Mark says with a flippant laugh. Technically, Mark outranks him.

Lucas lowers the computer screen from in front of his face, equally captivated and angered by Mark’s good spirits. “I mean it.” Lucas reaches up and digs his nails into Mark’s arm so the man can _ feel _ it through his racing uniform. “Don’t do anything dumb out there. I don’t want to lose you.” His own desperation stuns him.

Mark’s smile falters and he spends more time than he probably needs to staring at Lucas’s hand on his arm. “I’ll be back shortly.” And, just like that, his usual confidence is back. He pulls on the handlebars and the bike shudders beneath him as he revs the engine. 

Lucas lets go of Mark’s arm. He doesn’t know why, but- “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Mark just barely hears him over the growling engine. “Don’t say that. You’ll spook me.”

“I’m serious,” Lucas snaps. “I don’t like this. I’ve had a weird, itchy feeling since this morning.” 

They stare at each other in silence. Mark contemplates Lucas’s warning. Lucas wishes he could be at the handlebars in Mark’s place. Finally, Mark repeats, “I’ll be back shortly.” But the way the words leave his mouth are more serious this time around.

There is only about a minute and a half left before all of the bikes need to be lined up. Lucas stands up on one of the Northern Lights’s warm, vibrating pipes and helps Mark put on his white and burgundy helmet. He also spends a precious second wiping at a smudge on the helmet visor, pretending he is stroking Mark’s cheek instead. Then, with only a handful of seconds left, Lucas leaps off of the Northern Lights and orders the pit crew to stand aside.

Jungwoo approaches him, grinning. “You have got to hear the Hallasan start up, man.” He grabs his own crotch in a vulgar gesture. “It’s like having your dick sucked by soundwaves.”

“How direct,” Lucas comments. From one end of the pit to the other, all of the racers rev their engines and peel out of the hangars to head out to the starting line. Even with all of the eardrum rattling noise, Lucas can pick out the Northern Lights’s proud roar above it all. 

Jungwoo and Lucas rush between hangars so they can get to the edge of the pit and watch the start of the race. In the hours Lucas has been working on bike maintenance, the Stadium has filled with racing fans all the way up to the nosebleeds. The sound of the massive crowd’s cheers is deafening and it hits Lucas all over again that war has become a _ sport _. Black storm clouds smear across the horizon and, already, the air smells like rain.

Seconds later, the war bikes drive past the fence where Jungwoo and Lucas stand watching, slack-jawed.

There is India’s Saraswati, elegant and cream-colored. The red, white and blue monstrosity that is the United State’s Liberty. The German Jaeger rumbles past, boxy like a two-wheeled tank. There’s Macau’s Papillon, which can go so fast so quickly the whole thing lifts off of the ground in actual momentary flight. The elephantine Troy representing Greece thunders past. Lucas spots the Northern Lights and, bringing up the rear, he sees the Hallasan.

All of the vehicles line up at their positions at the starting line and the crowd’s cheers reach a fever pitch as the event draws ever closer. Flames and confetti shoot into the air. Aggressive rock music thunders out from the loudspeakers like a scene from Mad Max. The commentators shout to hype up the crowd even further as the starting lights count down: red, red, yellow, _ green _!

The combat bikes peel off from beneath the starting gate. Blue fire erupts from their exhaust pipes. Their engines ROAR. Some of the bikes get off to such a start that smoke and sparks burst from around their tires. In no time at all, the bikes have launched forward into the first lap and, already, concrete and dust explode into the air as a weapon is fired.

Lucas usually loves to watch but, today, he doesn’t want to. He _ can’t _! Not from this close by. Not with his own eyes. He isn’t sure why watching the violence fucks him up today. He is normally okay watching the races on TV or on the monitor back in the hangar. That’s fine. In his rare downtime during a race, he can also watch from behind the high chain link fence at the back of the pit. When he’s in the middle of the action like this, it’s easy to get swept away in the entertainment. Lucas only wants to think of the dangers of racing when he wakes up the day after a race, heads to the massive eighteen-wheeled transport truck and sees with his own eyes how bashed-in the Northern Lights is. Lucas usually doesn’t even like to think of the dangers when he sees the fresh scrapes and bruises blossoming across Mark’s skin.

But something is different about today. He can’t enjoy himself like he usually does. It’s all become a bit too real to him. He can hear the tires squealing. He can smell the rank exhaust from the pipes. The melting plastic. The ozone stench of a just-fired Tesla gun. He can see the fiery explosions bursting in the air like fireworks. He can see when someone’s transmission blows and spews blood-red liquid all over the track. He can feel the ground shake as the bikes thunder past.

It’s crazy. Ludicrous. But also fucking magical. He doesn’t want to watch but he can’t look away. He’s absolutely terrified but he is also entranced.

There is a plume of greenish fire as an incendiary round misses its target and explodes. There is an arc of light that shimmers like a rainbow as a plasma cannon fires. Lucas can’t quite see everything that happens. The pit sits too low. The stands sit too high. Most of the track is hidden from him by the elevation. By the trees. By the clouds of smoke. He is only aware of movement, color and the terrible sounds of rending metal and gunfire.

Before too long, he _ has _ to leave. In a hurry. He kind of reaches his limit.

Jungwoo catches up with him in the barely-there space between their hangars. “Hey,” Jungwoo’s hand latches on to his shoulder. “You alright? I’ve never seen you take off like that before.”

“I’m just gonna talk to Kun,” Lucas deflects. He doesn’t know why the anxiety hangs over his head. It’s been dragging at his ankles since he woke up. That bad feeling. That tingling in his chest that makes him worry that he’s left something important behind. Or, worse, that he’s about to lose something important. Lucas shrugs off Jungwoo’s hand and sprints towards the center of the pit. “He and I need to catch up,” he makes himself sound like he’s not about to have a breakdown. His running speed doesn’t give Jungwoo much of a chance to stop him. Lucas charges into Team China’s hangar, hoping Jungwoo won’t follow. Inside, Kun is propped up on a stack of tires with his shoes off like he doesn’t need to be ready for quick repairs at any given moment.

“Of course you’re worried about your precious bike,” Kun reassures him after Lucas voices his fears. Kun reaches out a hand and helps hoist Lucas up onto the tire stack beside him. It doesn’t feel anywhere near as sturdy as an actual chair, but the buoyancy of the rubber is exciting in a childishly simple way. Kun says, “You’re attached. You’ve spent like six years keeping up with the damn thing.”

Because, yeah, it’s the bike Lucas is actually concerned about. “You’re not worried? About-” Sicheng? “-the Qilin? The anxiety doesn’t keep you up at night?”

Kun waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t know how you do it in peace-loving Canada, but in China, if one war bike blows up, our manufacturers have three more lined up and waiting to be taken to the track.”

“But there’s only one Dong Sicheng,” Lucas blurts out, blowing his own cover.

Kun shrugs. “I _ guess _ .” He sounds completely unconcerned. “Let me tell you. Before Sicheng, I actually made it a point not to learn a driver’s name. I just went through too many of them, you know? Learning names takes up a lot of brainpower. Hell, I don’t even learn the names of most of my cadets!” Kun leans over the side of the tire stack. He switches to Mandarin to shout, “Hey, Xiao Dejun, toss me that yellow case. No, not that one. Don’t you know your colors? The yellow one.” The haggard-looking young man on the ground below them tosses up the yellow case in question and Kun catches it deftly with one hand. Then Kun turns to Lucas and switches back to the common language most drivers and mechanics are required to learn on their global tours. “I have no fucking idea if his name is Dejun or not. _ One _ of them is named Dejun. Somebody told me that.”

“What’s in the case?” Lucas wonders, pointing.

“The most important thing in the whole wide world,” Kun replies, and then he opens the box. Inside is a greasy-looking burger. “Empty calories.” He lifts it with both hands and bites into it. Sauce drips out from beneath the bun. One of the slices of tomato slides completely off and winds up on Kun’s thigh. No matter. Kun chews the burger like a starved man and then takes another bite even though he’s not entirely through with what’s already in his mouth. After a moment, he pulls the burger away from his ketchup-stained mouth and holds it up in front of Lucas’s face. 

Lucas accepts a bite. It’s tasty. Leagues better than the unfamiliar food he had to swallow down for dinner last night. As Lucas chews, his mind wanders. He worries about how much he’s missing out on. How much he’s been protected from by working with a driver like Mark Lee. Everyone around him has grown cold and hardened, nearly immune to death and the passing of time. It’s like they’ve become desensitized. Indifferent. Unable to show empathy. They aren’t hung up at all about sexual trysts with friends or even enemies. It’s like no one around him cares if the connections they make with others carry depth. Yet here he is, still feeling and fearing and wanting something _ meaningful _ . Longing for something that’ll last. Lucas’s anxiety spirals to lower, darker places. Perhaps someone else should be Team Canada’s driver. Lucas feels a little sheltered. Maybe even a little babied. It is almost like Mark is _ too _ good. Too good for him, at least. Lucas shakes his head. No. Wait. Too good at _ driving _, he corrects. Too skilled to be worried about.

Kun senses he’s losing Lucas’s attention and clears his throat to get it back. “When you live like this, you have to grab hold of something. Make it the reason you get out of bed in the morning.”

Lucas doesn’t remember asking for any advice and he surely hopes he hasn’t voiced his fears aloud. “What is it that you cling on to each day,” he asks. 

“Don’t fucking laugh at me… but I cling to the idea of peace,” Kun answers. “I told you not to laugh. I’m serious! I cling to peace, yo.” He shoves another bite of burger in his mouth and speaks with his mouth full. “I live for the fucking possibility that, one day, no one ever has to start up a war bike again. The goddamn things will all be behind glass walls in museums. There’s no more racing. No more fighting. Hell, no more fucking borders.” He crams yet another mouthful of burger into his mouth. Crumbs fly from between his lips. He asks, “What do you cling to, man?”

“The Northern Lights,” Lucas replies far too quickly. Because such an answer sounds a little less ridiculous than saying_ Mark Fucking Lee _.

His heart trembles. At first, Lucas thinks it is his imagination or his heart skipping a beat. Then he feels the shaking in his entire chest. All the way up to his neck. All the way down to his toes. Is it these complicated feelings for Mark making themselves known? Demanding to be acknowledged? Then fine. He cares about Mark more than a mechanic should care about their driver. Fine! But then the shaking continues. 

“Earthquake?” Kun asks, making it known that Lucas is not the only one feeling the vibrations. “No. Wait.” 

Just like that, the shaking stops. And not a moment later, both of their radios squeal as one of the race official’s voice buzzes through the speakers. “There has been a major crash. At least six vehicles involved.”

“What? Crash?” Kun wipes splashes of ketchup from his attempt at a beard. “It’s only been minutes. I doubt they’ve even completed two laps yet.”

Lucas feels his stomach drop. He knew he’d had a bad feeling! It’s been nagging at him all day. He knew something would go wrong. “You better get ready,” Lucas warns his friend. “In case something happened to Sicheng… I mean, the Qilin.” Lucas doesn’t acknowledge Kun’s response as he’s already leaping off of the tire stack down to the cement floor. It is a steeper drop than he thinks and the impact stings his feet as he lands, but he hits the ground running, rushing out of the hangar and gunning it across the pit to Team Canada’s hangar.

He doesn’t make it. He runs square into Ten. Nearly bowls the guy over. “Hey. Hey. Lucas. Slow down.”

Lucas can only panic. He doesn’t notice that it starts to rain. “If anything happens to Mark…” No. He corrects himself. “If anything happens to the Northern Lights...” He tries to push past Ten.

“Lucas, it’s alright. It’s going to be alright. The smoke hasn’t even cleared. He may not be in the pile up. Aren’t your headsets wirelessly connected? Just call him.”

Lucas taps in and tries to patch a call through, and although nothing is wrong with their connection, Mark does not answer. Lucas tries again and still gets no response. If he thought his heart was shaking before, now it is practically jackhammering away behind his ribcage. Lucas’s whole body feels like jelly and he sinks to his knees, unable to really process anything. “Fuck.”

“Is he not answering,” Ten asks calmly.

Lucas shakes his head. Then he looks up into Ten’s flat face. “How are you not worried at all? How are you not _ scared _?”

Ten’s face remains impassive. Stonelike. The rain falls down around them, plastering Ten’s bleached hair to the sides of his small, sharp face. Making his mechanic coveralls heavy and nearly-transparent. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t seem to _ want _ to answer.

A long moment passes. Lucas speaks up, “And don’t say something sociopathic like you don’t care who lives or dies! Because I know you do. I know you do.”

Ten’s silence goes on too long, too uncomfortably. “There’s just no point in worrying until we’re sure of who got involved in the crash.” There’s a low, choppy thrumming noise from nearby as a helicopter starts up and takes flight. Sirens wail in the distance as the emergency vehicles are deployed onto the track. The whole race must have been suspended if they are getting the fire trucks involved. 

Lucas asks, “How long until we have names?” The helicopter flies past overhead and Lucas follows its flight path towards the horizon where a massive black cloud of smoke has darkened the sky even more than the storm clouds have.

“They’ll call us, won’t they,” Ten suggests. He shrugs as if all they are talking about is no more serious than an incorrect order at a fast food restaurant. “And even if they do call, even if the bikes are toast, they’ll just make more.” Ten leaves Lucas kneeling on the wet pavement as he turns to leave, entering Team South Korea’s hangar like he has no better place to be.

Nausea claws at Lucas’s stomach. He hasn’t eaten properly in ages. The few bites of food he got from Kun does not help to settle the anxiety boiling over in his belly. His whole world feels off-kilter. Everything sits at an angle and it seems like he may go sliding off the edge. 

Around him, the pit comes alive. Not so much with panic as it does with urgency. Pit stop crews hastily move supplies and box up parts but not at a more frenzied pace than double time. Already, the photographers and journalists and news teams are encroaching on the space, foaming at the mouth for the chance to get the winning shot, at a chance for a big scoop. A lone bike rumbles into the pit, free of any visible signs of damage. Lucas does not recognize it immediately so he assumes it’s from one of the lower-ranking countries. A driver with too few points to be a threat to Team Canada’s standing. 

Lucas remains stretched out across the soaking wet pavement. Rain soaks him. He keeps his head down and tries to will away the pitch and weave of the contents of his stomach.

Minutes later, he no longer feels like he has to vomit. He stands. Wipes a hand across his brow where cold sweat and warm rain intermingle on his skin.

He almost forgets where he is. And that they’re in the middle of an emergency.

Lucas rushes into Team South Korea’s hangar and is surprised but not surprised to see Jungwoo and Ten deadlocked in the middle of a makeout session, right there in front of the other soldiers who do their best to pretend not to notice. Lucas walks right up to them, pulls them apart despite their verbal protests and reaching, grasping hands. “Do we know who got caught in the crash yet?”

Jungwoo shakes his head. “No… I don’t think so. We haven’t been contacted.”

“It’s only been a few minutes,” Ten speaks up. His lips are a little swollen and red from where Jungwoo has bit them. Even his neck is dotted with new, fresh marks. Jungwoo claiming his territory. He drags a finger up his neck as if to point them out. “The officials are probably more concerned about the commercial break lineup than who is under a pile of smoking rubble.”

Lucas ignores the very justifiable desire to punch Ten square in the center of his face. Instead, he asks, “Have your drivers contacted you?”

Jungwoo scratches at his ear and realizes belatedly that he’s not even wearing his headset. He wanders off to try and find it.

Ten, on the other hand, makes no move to call BamBam.

Lucas tries calling Mark again but to no avail. He is certain their connection is fine. Mark just isn’t answering. Such uncertainty sends a chill up Lucas’s spine so bad that awful goosebumps crawl up his arms. “Shit. How is there-- Why is there no official announcement yet?” And why was no one else fucking _ concerned _ ? Has everyone else become so desensitized to the horror of combat racing that crashes don’t stir even a modicum of human sympathy? Lucas hopes he hasn’t lost his mind. He hopes that he isn’t the crazy one for still _ feeling something _. “This is a big deal, isn’t it? I mean… This is massive, right? This isn’t a dream. This is actually happening and it’s awful, correct?” He drags a hand across his cheek. His nails dig into his skin and the mild pain they cause do not wake him from some tortuous dream. “There hasn’t been a crash with this many bikes involved since Singapore.”

“I don’t know,” Ten huffs. He folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t keep up with that kind of stuff.”

“How can you say that-” Lucas clamps his mouth shut. His anger takes longer to go quiet. He sighs. There is no use in arguing. No point in trying to make Ten see his point. “I’ll be in my hangar.” So that’s where he goes. He’s too emotionally exhausted to run so he trudges through the mud. He feels the chill of the rain all the way to his bones. To his soul, if he even still has one after so many years of doing this. One of his boots nearly gets sucked off his foot by a thick patch of fresh mud and it is this one tiny, insignificant thing on top of all of the other things that almost makes him cry.

When he reaches Team Canada’s hangar, it is quiet. Still. Lonely. The only noise is the rain dripping from his hair and nose and fingers. And that’s… wrong. There should be plenty of noise here. He isn’t sure where the pit crew has gone. He does not remember ordering them to go anywhere. He walks through the large, open space and ignores the black smoke he sees through every window. He ignores the stench of burning rubber that wafts in through the hangar doors. If he can just push it all away… If he can only focus on one shred of something good… In the center of the hangar, there is a long, narrow streak of debris and oil stains that would perfectly fit beneath the Northern Lights if she were parked there. In a wicked moment of clarity, Lucas realizes how large she is. How powerful and dangerous she is despite how beautiful she can be when the sunlight hits her right. Her danger… That fact that he’s always pushed to the back of his mind now sits front and center. For the first time since basic training six or seven years ago, he is _ afraid _ of the war bikes. He is afraid of what they can do and what they mean and why they are no different from battle tanks. Alone in the hangar, Lucas is reminded of how tiny he is compared to them. How tiny he is compared to the global war that hides beneath the spectacle of high-speed racing. Lucas is afraid of the war bikes and their weapons. Their many moving parts. Their blades and spikes and chains and guns. But he is also afraid of their fragility. How one mistake can destroy them and kill their driver.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, frustrated and terrified and full of despair, but a crackle comes over the official radio across his chest right when the silence becomes unbearable. Through the static, Lucas hears the official list of bikes that were involved in the pile-up. And, just as he fears, the Northern Lights is one of the names called.

There is a rumble of an engine outside the hangar doors and Lucas rushes outside into the rain. It’s the Saraswati, the paint scraped completely off one side of her. One of her tires is split wide open and sparks kick up where she drags herself forward on the hubcap. Smoke pours from beneath the compartment where her engine is stored. She is wheeled into Team India’s hangar and the only noise in the whole pit seems to be the quiet, ominous clicking of the small motor and chains that closes the hangar doors behind her.

The Troy from Greece returns. It’s entire front side is smashed in. Charred from fire and smoke. Its front wheel is entirely unusable. She has to be towed in with a truck that barely looks large enough to haul her.

Then the Hallasan returns, as spotless as she had left. She hadn’t been involved in the crash, Lucas knows. Her engine vibrates the ground beneath Lucas’s feet as Donghyuck steers her into South Korea’s hangar. The war bike has hardly come to a complete stop before Donghyuck is leaping off of her, shucking his helmet across the cement floor. He takes one step, then two, then three. Then he crumples into a heap on the floor and laughs wildly. Whether he is terrified or elated, Lucas cannot tell, but the poor boy finally knows the reality of what he must do from now on.

One by one, the war bikes return and, one by one, the mechanics start their work.

When the parade of war bikes eases, Lucas walks across the expanse of the pit to stand in front of Team China’s hangar just as Sicheng wrestles himself free of the tangle of safety belts that keep him bound to the Qilin. Kun notices Lucas standing nearby and walks over to him with a light, unworried smile. He places a reassuring hand on Lucas’s shoulder. Lucas just stares across the way into Team Canada’s empty hangar like he’s watching something mildly horrific on television. Some terrible news broadcast that upsets him yet intrigues him too much for him to walk away or change the channel. Lucas sighs and decides that things will be easier to mentally process if he returns to the hotel and sleeps off his fatigue first.

However, movement out of the corner of his eye makes him stop and turn. Through the flags fluttering in the wind, through the pouring rain, he can’t tell if he imagines a streak of burgundy and white. Lucas stands there, suspended between doubt and anticipation, his eyes wide. Then the Northern Lights drives forward through the haze. She’s scraped and scorched. The paint job is absolutely ruined. But it is his and it matters to him and Mark! Good God, there’s Mark! Lucas is so immensely filled with relief that his heart reacts before his brain does. He rushes forward, faster and faster until he’s at a dead run, not caring that he’s putting himself directly into the Northern Light’s path. He runs towards her as she eases into a wide left turn towards the hangar. 

He can’t wait a second longer! 

He takes a running jump and leaps through the air towards her, landing on one of the pipes that cools her engine. He puts one hand over the other and begins crawling up the Northern Lights’s chassis, even as it rumbles into the hangar. He knows this bike by heart. Knows every groove he can dig his boots in, knows every pipe where his fingers can find purchase. He can feel the way she shakes and hobbles underneath him. He can tell that the suspension has been damaged, that the tire alignment is off, that the engine is running hotter than she needs to. He can tell because she is his and he just _ knows _. 

The bike eases to a halt and Lucas props a knee up on Mark’s thigh for leverage as he yanks Mark’s cracked helmet off of the driver’s head and flings it into the far corner of the hangar. Mark hasn’t even turned off the engine before Lucas leans forward, slaps his big hands on either side of Mark’s face and kisses him on the mouth. He feels like he is on fire. 

Mark lets out a noise of surprise, but then lets out an entirely different noise as he gives in to the kiss. It is rushed, sloppy with too much tongue, hands grabbing at hair and sleeves. It is everything. Everything! And then Lucas pulls away as he realizes what he’s done.

Mark sits in front of him, blushing. A little dazed. Still strapped into his seat.

“I’m sorry,” Lucas says, feeling ashamed. Like he’s just crossed a boundary he never should have approached. He is already climbing down the side of the bike in a mad attempt to put the distance he stole back between them where it belongs. He’s just about to leap to the ground when he feels Mark grab his arm, fingers digging hard into his wrist. Lucas startles and looks up at Mark who is now looking down at him with the same bright eyes from their very first training day together. The same chipper smile from those moments right before this very race.

“I’ve been waiting years for you to do that,” Mark says. And then he lets go and does not mind it when Lucas runs away. 

🏍

Lucas waits until he knows for sure that Mark and the other drivers have been flown via helicopter to the nearest hospital before he returns to the hangar. After what he’s done, he isn’t sure he is brave enough to face Mark. The storm has passed. Both the one that darkened the sky and the one that darkened his heart. The pit crew has returned. (He discovers that they, along with the crews from a few other Teams, had been called to the stands to help evacuate the audience in the stands.) 

Lucas takes his sweet time running diagnostics on the Northern Lights. He orders his crew to fetch the necessary tools and parts from the eighteen wheeled transport truck just off stadium grounds. He loses himself in the noise of machinery and conversation and laughter as he works, doing everything he can to keep that kiss out of his mind. He does everything to forget the flavor of Mark’s mouth on his. Even now, he still doesn’t know why he did it. He’d been worried, he tells himself. Worried absolutely sick. And then when he saw the Northern Lights pull up, he’d been super relieved and so caught up in the moment that he didn’t realize what he was doing until after he had done it. That is his excuse and he clings to that story as he buffs out the scratches from the Northern Lights’s chassis and replaces one of her drive axles.

Night comes but he toils on. In the hangars around him, the other mechanics finish their work and leave but he stays. Even his own pit crew leaves for the night but he stays. If he stops working, his feelings for Mark will bombard him and that will be too much for him to take. It is far into the morning hours when he completes all of his repair work. The Northern Lights isn’t pretty. At all. The paint is scratched to hell and she sports tires from two different manufacturers, but she _ runs _ and that is what matters. He cleans up after himself, locks everything up and finally decides that he can leave the hangar, leave the stadium, and go back to their hotel.

Mark is still asleep by the time Lucas gets back. Good. Lucas ignores his desire to watch the way the morning sunlight falls across Mark’s sleeping face. Instead, he showers and changes clothes. When he crawls into his bed closest to the window, he falls asleep the moment his head touches his pillow. He is so tired that he does not dream. He is so exhausted that he does not wake up until 1800 hours that evening to a loud _ thump _ as Mark shuts the door behind him as he returns from a day at the hospital having his wounds looked at again. 

“You okay?” Mark asks when he notices that Lucas is awake and watching him.

“I should be asking you that,” Lucas responds, not daring to leave his bed.

“Of course I’m fine. I’ve been in crazier situations.” Mark admires the bandages on his forearms like they are honorable badges.

Lucas lets his nervousness get the better of him. “That didn’t make yesterday any less nerve-wracking. What happened out there, Mark?”

The driver doesn’t answer the question. He just sits on the edge of his own bed. “You know,” he says, “It’s not until you’ve got someone waiting for you that you realize just how dangerous it is out there.”

“I’ve been waiting for you for four or five years,” Lucas states, mid-yawn. Then he catches himself. "I mean, I've been your mechanic for four or five years." He rolls over onto his stomach and tucks his arms under his pillow. He stares out the window and wishes more than anything that he could see the sea from here. “Today isn’t any different from any of the other days.” Perhaps if they don’t talk about it, that kiss they shared never happened. “What the hell _ happened _ out there?” He rolls over to look at the man. “I heard that there was a casualty.” Ironically from Team Portugal.

It’s been a while since Lucas has seen Mark wear anything except sleep clothes or his racing uniform. Mark wears a simple black shirt and matching gym shorts but his attire shows off his muscular, scarred calves and his biceps littered with old burn marks. Mark answers, “It was so confusing. It all happened so fast. Yuta had tried to shoot one of his weapons but it misfired. It knocked one of his back wheels clean off and sent him fishtailing. He just barely missed Team France but actually _ did _ end up crashing front bumper to front bumper into Team Greece. I look left to try to find a way around it all, I look right and I’ve got two bikes coming for me head on.”

Lucas can’t stand it. He doesn’t even want to hear it! He rolls back over so that he is looking out the window as opposed to watching Mark.

Mark continues his story. “Team Germany swerves to the right. They nearly take me out just trying to avoid getting taken out themselves, yeah? I mean, it’s madness out there. Everyone’s swerving. There’s smoke everywhere. Parts are flying. Visibility is next to none. I slam on the brakes. Team Thailand hits me from the back. And then it’s just crashing and impact. Being tossed from side to side as bikes rush into me.”

“I can’t even imagine,” Lucas says. He doesn’t even remember the last time he’s driven any kind of vehicle. And even if he could recall his experience, it would pale in comparison to driving a monstrous war bike. A moment passes and Lucas feels the mattress dip underneath him as Mark sits on the edge of his bed. He feels volcanic heat seep into his skin as Mark lays a callused but gentle hand on his shoulder. Even this much is new and foreign to Lucas but he relaxes under the touch.

“But I made it out,” Mark finishes. “Because of all of your hard work, the Northern Lights held up. Because she’s so sturdy, I didn’t go sliding into the worst of it. I didn’t flip. I was barely hurt.”

Lucas knows it’s a compliment but he can’t take it as one. “You should probably retire. You’ve had a longer career than almost any other driver in the world. You should quit while you’re ahead. While you’ve still got your head.”

“Nonsense,” Mark says. The same voice he uses in TV interviews. But then his tone changes from cool and unaffected to comforting and warm. “As long as I’ve got you waiting for me, I’m not dying out there. A kiss from you is motivation enough. I will always come back to you.”

It’s like dropping a heavy bike part on his foot. The shock jolts through Lucas and he sits up to stare at Mark, wide-eyed. Nervous. “Don’t think about that. The kiss, I mean.” He tries to wave it away. “It was out of left field. I shouldn’t have,” Lucas says. He struggles to remember the excuse he came up with earlier in the hangar. “For the longest time, I thought you hadn’t made it. Then I saw the Northern Lights and I was just so overwhelmed. So happy that you came back.” That was not the excuse. _ That was not the excuse! _ Why wouldn’t the words stop? “When I realized you were okay, I just did what my heart wanted to. I kissed you. Without asking. I couldn’t help it. It all came at me right at once.” He didn’t even know kissing Mark was something that he wanted to do until then.

Mark sighs in relief. “Didn’t you hear me back there? I wanted you to kiss me back then. And I want you to-”

But Lucas interrupts him with another kiss. He misses Mark’s mouth but it doesn’t matter.

“-kiss me now,” Mark finishes, quiet and slow.

“Then I’ll kiss you,” Lucas consents.

But Lucas does not kiss him. He just raises his hand to Mark’s face and _ looks at him _. Admires him, almost. As if he is looking at Mark for the first time even though they’ve spent nearly every day together for several years. 

“You’ve always been beside me,” Mark admits. When he speaks, Lucas can feel the vibration of his voice beneath his palm. “From the start of my career up to now, you’ve been on my side.” Mark leans just a little into Lucas’s touch. “You’ve always stood next to me. You’ve had my back when the army didn’t. Even when corporations turned their backs on me or broke their contracts or pulled their donations without warning, you were always honest with me. You were the one person who never used me. The one person who saw me as a person and not just something to slap logos on to.” Mark pushes close. They are already close but now they are _ close _. He leans against Lucas’s solid frame and props his chin up on Lucas’s shoulder in a slightly awkward yet still somehow comfortable half-hug. “I love you.”

The confession is simple. Easy. More importantly than that, it is nowhere near as frightening as Lucas always feared. And because it’s not as scary as he has always thought, he says, “I love you, too.” And when he realizes that he means it, he says, “I mean it.” Because these last several years have been full of ups and downs, full of moments of fright and joy and sadness but, through it all, Mark remains constant. His anchor. “I worry about you and I’m scared for you every second you’re out there in a race. I don’t want to lose you because you’re everything to me.” Lucas’s eyes drift closed. He inhales Mark’s familiar scent. He basks in the heat of Mark’s body next to his. In all of these little things, he finds meaning. Purpose. He finds something to _ cling to _. “I love you.”

Mark pulls back. He looks into Lucas’s eyes and his expression is so full of teary-eyed hope that it makes Lucas’s heart break. “Am I dreaming this,” the driver almost whispers.

Lucas gulps. _ Was _ this a dream? But… “No. I’m really here. We’re really here and we’re really doing this.”

And that’s all the confirmation that either of them need.

Mark leans forward. Just a little. He breaches Lucas’s personal space. Lucas holds back for only a moment before he meets him halfway. Their lips touch. Successfully, this time. The sensation is startling so Lucas gasps and pulls back. Mark pushes forward the remaining distance and kisses Lucas sweetly. Steadily. His mouth is cool and soft against Lucas’s chapped lips. 

“Is this weird,” Mark asks. His mouth moves against Lucas’s cheek. His breath is warm and carries the lingering smell of dark roast coffee. “Are we moving too fast?”

“We’ve been moving for years,” Lucas tells him. It’s like a roller coaster. Gravity pulls at Lucas and makes it feel like he’s going to go careening into Mark in a violent crash even though they are already pressed together. 

“What do you want,” Mark asks. 

Lucas thinks about Ten and Jungwoo. Oddly, he thinks about Kun and the men of Team Hong Kong. “I want that.” And he knows Mark _ knows _. “But I also want more than that. I want something that matters.” Lucas exhales. He thinks about the conversation he had with Kun. About finding a light to look for in the darkness. “I want something I can cling to.” He isn’t sure he’s making any sense, but-

“I understand,” Mark tells him. He relaxes against Lucas. The movement brings them forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Their mouths exist a breath apart, waiting to fit together again.

All of this is risky. God, it is risky. Racing is dangerous. Unpredictable. It makes sense for both of them to want something that won’t endure. Something temporary. Something hot. Something that can be easily discarded. It makes sense for them to only need something fast because tomorrow is not guaranteed. And yet… and yet...

“I want to be who you cling to,” Mark announces. “And I want you to be who I always come back to.”

This time it is Lucas who pulls back. He gazes into Mark’s eyes. He wonders if he is dreaming or if he really is living a life in which he gets the one thing he asks for. Neither of them speak as they look at each other but it is as if years worth of conversation pass between them. All of the words they were too afraid to say. All of the feelings they were too afraid to accept. Too afraid to show. Everything is out in the open now and there are no longer any excuses to try and hide behind. Lucas bravely approaches the challenge. “Then that’s what we’ll be, Mark. That’s what we’ll be.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.me/TheSwingbyJHF)


End file.
